Falling
by KnittedSweater
Summary: "His feet are tipping slightly off of the edge of the stone wall; his eyes are gazing at the peeking sun just opposite of him. He dares a glance down at the few who've started to scram from bed. His hands are shoved deep into his jacket pockets and he wonders if he can do this one - hopefully last - act to teach them." Angst. Cursing. Implied suicide. Warnings inside.
1. She Doesn't Know Best

**alright-y, another weird angsty one-shot, courtesy of yours truly. 's sorta weird, at first i was writing a hardy, but fluffy mergana one-shot (it's called "traditions and priorities", if you're interested), and then, after a little break, my gut said "angsty done merlin fic angsty done merlin fic" and it sorta spewed out of my fingers in thirty minutes or so. hee.**

**warnings: SUICIDE, SELF HATE, that complete feeling of USELESSNESS we all feel at one point in our lives. also a heap of CURSING because dammit merlin's far too angsty god i love merlin's angst because it's nOT BLATANT IN THE SHOW /huffs**

**don't mind me i'll be professional from this point onward.**

* * *

**word count: 704 words**

**disclaimer: i do not own merlin.**

**canon setting: between season four and season five**

* * *

**Falling**

**She Doesn't Know Best**

He wants to fall off of this wall.

He wants to spread his arms out like an eagle and end it all, just end it all. He wants his body to land on the stones below with a sickening thud just as the first of the citizens are rising from their straw beds. He wants them to gape at his broken body and show some fucking sadness, because he's gotten none of that, _none of that_ for what he's done.

No sense of _thanks,_ no sense of _sadness_ for what he's given up for their damn lives. No sense of _gratefulness_ for their humble hero who can't stand to be humble for another second. He wants some _damn respect_ and _thanks_ for once. He's_ tried_ to be humble, to stay behind Arthur like a shadow, but even his patience wears thin over time. Arthur's grown distant, but still expects him to be at his every beck and call. Gwen's grown swamped with work, no time left for useless, _peasant_ friends. He's only a minor matter. He's a servant, they're nobility, pure royalty.

Everybody he cares about is of noble blood, and he feels like he should get some damn credit for putting up with their royal asses. Whether they're genetically noble or not, he still gets to call them that in his head. They think he's so _busy_ being a servant, but he's got too much time on his hands at night thinking to himself, and he's turned to _resentment_ and _hate_ and has been questioning _everything he's done_ for the sake of Camelot.

Life isn't fair. It's a fact of the world. Not everybody's going to be happy or fed or damn well credited, and that's how the world works. He _knows_ that.

But what he _doesn't_ know is why after everything he'd given up, after every life he's taken, after every burden he fucking nails into his curdling heart, why the gods _still _don't see it fit.

Gaius notices, tells him he's got to push through, but Merlin wonders if it's even worth it. He feels like a Catholic practicing Lent every day. Give this up for forty days (or your whole life; some things, like Freya's touch or Balinor's embrace just can't be given up then taken again), and take on saving Arthur's life and dealing with his snarky remarks in order for salvation. He feels broken, withered, tired, well beyond his twenty-some years. He's done with destiny, he's _been _done with destiny; it just took him time to realize it.

His feet are tipping slightly over the edge of the stone wall; his eyes are gazing at the peeking sun just opposite of him. He dares a glance down at the few who've started to scram from bed. His hands are shoved deep into his jacket pockets and he wonders if he can do this one – hopefully last – act to teach them.

Yes, _yes,_ he can. He'll show them some fucking humility. He'll show them what negligence can lead to. He doesn't care if it costs him his life or a few broken bones. If it takes his life to teach them to care, _so be it._ He's _sick _of it all. His tongue is _sick _of spewing lies for all these years. His hands are _sick _of killing for someone who just threw him away. His whole being's _sick_ and _done._ He's done with caring. Fuck caring. When you care too much nobody notices; it's ironic, nobody _cares._

It's selfish, wishing like this. But he doesn't care. Since when have they cared? He certainly has. Look where that's got him. Wanting to commit suicide because maybe when he's _dead,_ people will finally start to take notice of the king's _caring _manservant.

Merlin laughs.

And now he's falling because _nobody cares._ Falling because nobody thought to give a damn about him. Falling because the knights found comfort in each other. Falling because Arthur found comfort in Gwen. Falling because no one spends time with him anymore. Falling because his mother's long gone with his father to tell him that he is destined for so much more than he could imagine.

Turns out she was wrong.


	2. It Can't Be Him It Can't Be

**so i feel like this fic will be a four-shot. i didn't get quite far plot-wise in this chapter, but arthur's feelings.**

**still deciding whether or not merlin lives(code words for: still deciding whether or not i should break your hearts[along with mine]).**

**i'm really having fun with this fic. hee.**

**warnings: same as last chapter, but there is also some SLIGHTLY GRUESOME IMAGERY. if you really want to know, it's just BLOOD blood blood, blood everywhere. so, really, if you're not into that stuff, take caution.**

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**word count: 1028 words**

**disclaimer: i do not own merlin.**

**canon setting: between season four and season five**

* * *

**Falling**

**Chapter Two**

**It Can't Be Him; It Can't Be**

He doesn't feel the impact when he hits the cobblestone path. He doesn't hear the townspeople's screams. He doesn't see the pack of red, silver, and gold rushing towards the crowd. He doesn't see the swath of royal purple, see a glittering crown fall, or hear a woman's shrill shriek. He doesn't see a wobbling figure in faded blue robes fight through the knights keeping the crowd back. He doesn't see him scream at the infamous tavern knight, "He's my son! He's my _son!"_ and rush over when the knight lets him through with tears in his eyes. He doesn't see him fall onto aged, wonky knees, or hear the raspy, tearful demands. He's trapped somewhere between heaven and hell (Is it purgatory? He doesn't know.), and he's _floating,_ still flying towards the ground.

And he's alright with that.

* * *

When he's not kissed awake by Gwen, Arthur knows something is wrong.

The sun's already creating this blasted, bright light through the window. It makes his head thrum and his eyebrows furrow and he's wondering just where the _hell_ she is.

A wild bout of knocking at the door is quenched with George rushing into his room, scarf and hair tousled. If anything, George doesn't look like _George,_ and when that happens, Arthur can only assume something terribly awful has happened. The splotchy red across his face and the shaking of his hands just makes Arthur's thoughts turn darker.

"Sire – sire, it's _Merlin_ – "George gasps, looking like he's going to cry any second now. Despite his servant's obvious distress, Arthur decides to play the role of the exasperated king (even though he's very worried, _very_ worried indeed).

"What's that idiot gone and done now, George?" he drawls, leaning back on the fluffy pillows the mentioned manservant punched for hours after Arthur complained about them being far too flat and lumpy.

"Sire, you don't understand – Merlin's gone and done the _unthinkable,"_ George replies, seemingly holding back an anger Arthur's never encountered before.

Arthur barks a laugh. "He does the unthinkable every day, George."

Wrong reaction.

Now George's stomping up to the bed, and his face is closer to Arthur's than it's ever been before. The king can see the tears in his eyes developing with his anger, and his eyes are glaring with hard cold daggers that Arthur can only pinpoint as raw care for Merlin, and he doesn't understand. Why is George acting this way? What is going on? Why is George crying? Why is _George_ here instead of _Merlin? _

What did Merlin do?

* * *

When he reaches the crowd, it parts for him like the Red Sea. All is silent; the citizens of Camelot are watching their king, wondering how he will react to Merlin's hideous deed. At the end stands a row of knights blocking off the scene, and Gwaine doesn't give him a smile or anything. His eyes are dead, except for the tears falling into the shadow of a beard he wears. He looks broken, but determined. Determined to keep standing there, not letting anyone else sully whatever is behind their backs.

That's when he hears the weeping.

"Merlin – Merlin, _why?"_

"Oh, gods – I – I don't know what to _do – "_

"Merlin! Merlin, wake _up,_ dammit!"

The voices only make him walk faster, even though he's not sure that he wants to see the scene beyond the knights' cloaks. He's not sure if he even wants to be here, but it's Merlin, it's _Merlin,_ so he has to.

As he reaches Gwaine's shoulder, he can see the trailing of a purple dress. A shock runs through him as he recognizes the dress; he'd recognize it anywhere. It's Gwen's dress – his favorite dress on her.

A harrowed wail and a shifting of the fabric is all it takes for Arthur to shove past the line of knights.

And he's not prepared for what he sees.

The first thing he notices is that there's so much blood spilling out onto the cobblestone path. There's a wide pool of it, and in the center of it all, a trio sits, clutching the source of the damned red substance.

Gwen's face is contorted in anguish and tears fall into the blood as she wails, _screams;_ he doesn't know if there's a word to describe how much she seems to hurt. Her head bears no crown, and it's lying off to the side, but still touched with blood. Her dress is a sight to behold; long gone is the deep purple he adored, it's stained with dark red, a red darker than Camelot's own. It cover's her abdomen and her hands, and if he didn't know any better, he'd say she was the one who had the wound.

Gaius is on his knees, hunched over and showing his age properly. He's shaking and sobbing and his hands are splayed on the bloody ground. He's wailing – more like _pleading_ – with the body between him and Gwen. He's softer, quieter than Gwen, but his cries echo off the stones, showing his grief.

The body in the middle shocks him the most.

It's covered in blood, from head to toe. It's unmoving, head turned to the side, unresponsive to their words. Time seems to slow down as Arthur sees the blue neckerchief, the brown leather jacket, and the brown hair matted with blood on the body.

It's not him. It _can't _be him.

But he finds himself falling on his knees, scrambling towards Merlin. His knees and hands are covered in blood, but he doesn't care, he has to reach Merlin, he _has_ to.

He can't be _dead,_ oh gods, _please _don't be dead, _please_ don't be dead, Merlin.

But he's not moving, he's _bloody,_ he's – is his chest even _moving?!_

Arthur's sobbing before he even knows what he's doing. He's collecting Merlin's head into his lap and brushing back his bloody hair. Merlin's pale face makes the blood stand out awfully. Arthur sits there, caressing Merlin's face, because what else can he do? Merlin might as well be –

No.

Don't think that.

Don't you _dare _think that, Arthur.

He's _not_ dead.

He _can't_ be.


	3. Picking Up the Pieces

**wow! thanks for the responses! updating is choppy, sorry for that. mondays suck. school sucks. yuck yuck.**

**this one's pretty short. it's fresh outta the oven. still open to grammar pointers and possible elaborations if you get confused or anything.**

**oh yeah, and i just realized that gwen's not queen yet in season four, so i have changed everything to canon setting between season 4 and 5. **

**warnings: the AFTERMATH of a suicide, GRIEF, and total ANGST.**

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**word count: 637 words**

**disclaimer: i do not own merlin.**

**canon setting: between season four and season five**

* * *

**Falling**

**Chapter Three**

**Picking Up the Pieces**

Gaius is only half-functional after they cart off Merlin's body. He finds himself reaching his hand up as they slip his limp body from his gnarled fingers, because he_ thinks_ there's a pulse.

But he hesitates.

And he puts his hand down.

The knights shakily heave Merlin's body onto the wooden box. Some know Merlin. Some don't.

But they all have tears in their eyes.

The last girl who jumped from that tower was no more than fifteen.

And her last words to her mother were, "I hate my life. Just let me die."

If Merlin had barely survived the fall, would he have said the same thing?

* * *

Arthur can't process a damn thing.

Merlin's dead. Merlin's _dead._ They carted off his body, so he must be dead.

Guinevere's words aren't making sense when he pays attention, and then he realizes that she's still sobbing.

So he lies down next to her, but doesn't cry out, doesn't say anything, because he's got to be strong. For Gwen. For Gwen.

And for Merlin.

* * *

Gwaine's not sure of anything anymore.

His best friend's gone and chucked himself off a fucking tower; his best friend, Merlin, who's been nothing but chipper.

Or at least, he_ thinks_ he was.

_Where you happy in those last moments, Merlin?_

He shakes his head.

No, he probably wasn't.

But it still doesn't stop him from wondering. He wonders where it all went _wrong,_ when Merlin started to hate himself. He wonders if he'd done anything in particular to make Merlin act this way, but he can't recall anything, and that's why his head hurts.

He's thinking a night at the tavern would make this easier, but he knows that Merlin, _oh,_ sweet, lovable Merlin, wouldn't want him drinking himself sick because of him.

He doesn't even want to go to the tavern, anyways. It'll be loud. It'll be noisy. But most of all, it'll be_ happy._

If there's anything Gwaine can stomach right now, it's definitely _not_ happiness. No, not after…

Not after Merlin chucked himself off a fucking wall.

No, he's got to remorse soberly, because it's Merlin, for Christ's sake. It's Merlin. It's _Merlin._

Sweet, _lovable_ Merlin.

* * *

After the crowd had finally cleared, nobody dared to trespass where the blood was still marked on the ground. Hell, nobody even dared to travel on the path. The usual stalls were empty, and that one street looked like a part of a ghost town.

Except for the blood.

When the sun started to set, and Merlin's body had been carefully placed on the softest bed available in the morgue, the knights traveled to the lonely cobblestone road.

The blood was dark and eerie, dried up from being in the sun. It was smeared slightly, and bloody shuffles of footsteps gathered in a line where Gwen, Gaius, and Arthur had walked back to mourn.

A rough sponge in each hand and a water bucket heaved in the cart Merlin had been in, they each got on their knees and scrubbed. They scrubbed and scrubbed until the moon was high up in the sky, but the blood wouldn't wash off all the way. It left a nasty stain on the stones, dark and splotchy.

When they finished, Gwaine stood in the middle of the stain and looked up towards the stony ledge.

He could see the ghost of Merlin's figure there, feet tipping off of the ledge.

Gwaine sobbed, threw down his sponge, and yelled at the moon, teeth bared and hair mussed, looking like a werewolf.

_"Why?!"_

* * *

When he opened his eyes, the moon cast a beam of light across his face. Blatantly, obnoxiously, burning his eyeballs and making them water.

But the moonlight meant one thing.

He was fucking _alive._

And he didn't fucking want to be.


	4. No Pushing Up the Daisies Today, My Dear

**yay yay! another update! celebrating the fact that we don't have homework at all when we have interim assessments (although i'm sure the test's gonna be complete hell).**

**this little bit was fun to write. **

**warnings: ANGST, mentions of BLOOD, the AFTERMATH of a suicide, CURSING, and just pure AGONY (merlin's agony wah you poor boy let me hug you aw).**

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**word count: 932 words**

**disclaimer: i do not own merlin.**

**canon setting: between season four and season five**

* * *

**Falling**

**Chapter Four**

**No Pushing Up the Daisies Today, My Dear**

The stars don't bring comfort to him tonight. There's nothing but sorrow and spite.

The pinpricks of light seem to be mocking him. _You're alive,_ they say. _You're alive, you little fucker._

The moon just laughs at his pale, bloodied face.

And he can't take it.

Next thing he knows, he's curled up into himself, because truly, he wanted to die. He didn't – he didn't ask for _this!_ He didn't ask for the moon and the stars to mock him. He didn't ask for the guilt ridden upon his shoulders. He didn't ask for _anything._ He's sobbing because once they know he's alive, they'll coddle him and give him such _pitying _eyes that drive him to insanity, because he can't stand them. That look mocks him and tells him that they think that he's _weak,_ when he knows that he's not, but he has to act like it, because it's what's expected.

He's expected to be a fucking _moron _every waking moment.

And he didn't fucking ask for it.

All he asked for was his sorry life to be over, but no, destiny _– the bastard it is –_ decided to do a fucking one-eighty on him and say, _no, not today, warlock, you've got duties to fulfill. _

If he falls asleep again, will he wake up?

* * *

They find him sitting on the steep, stone stairs, blood still cracked and dry on his face. He's hunched over, seemingly contemplating the sunrise, hands clenched together in front of him.

They can't believe it's true.

But when Gwen chokes out a shaky, "M-Merlin…!" and he glances back at them, he doesn't look the same.

His eyes are narrowed, the blue glazed over until you're bones felt like a bucket of winter pond water has been poured over your body. His eyebrows are creased in a twinge of anger _– or is it annoyance? –_ creating this sort of dangerous look about him. And most of all, his lips are pulled down into a frown, not a little frown, a frown that you see etched on the faces of people who just _can't_ take it anymore, and have no reason to smile.

As he looks away, their smiles fade into lines, and they don't know what to do.

But it seems Merlin has an idea in mind, because he gets up and walks towards them, his group of mourners dressed in their finest black, and passes through as the crowd parts just as it did for Arthur only yesterday.

They don't know how to feel.

Should they feel elated that Merlin's alive? Should they feel pity for his actions? Should they throw a banquet (which would be frowned upon, a banquet for a servant, how _absurd)_ and celebrate his miraculous recovery?

They just don't know.

* * *

Merlin can taste their uncertainty in the air like the water of the first thunderous rain of the summer as it washes over the dry, cracked land. It's unnerving; it's confusing, but all the while, oddly _satisfying._

_Let them be confused. Let them wonder. Let them see how cold I've become. I may still be alive, but that doesn't mean I have to go back to being such a petty, naïve servant. Hell no. I'll let them suffer. I'll let their brains knock around in confusion in their royal skulls until they're just lost._

_Just as I was._

And he walks off into who-knows-where in the castle, not a single glance back. He regrets nothing. Not a single thing.

He hopes_ they _do.

* * *

Gaius gets to his heart first.

When he entered the little stone room, he didn't expect to see him sitting there, staring listlessly into the fire.

Gaius' eyes are disbelieving and wide and trembling and brimming with tears at the sight of him. The boy he'd just held – for what he thought was the last time – in his arms, bloodied and looking broken (in more ways than one).

And as Gaius doesn't demand anything, just pats the space next to him on the lumpy, cloth-covered workbench, Merlin's heart aches, because Gaius _understands._ Gaius understands more than any of those he left behind ever could.

Merlin takes the seat, because it's _Gaius._ Although Balinor was his father through and through (even in those little, precious moments), Gaius was always there (not to say it was Balinor's fault that he couldn't be there, either). Gaius was there, through thick and thin, cuffing him on the back of his head one moment, crying and hugging him the next.

He sits shoulder to shoulder with Gaius, and as the older man dozes off into confusion (but utter relief), tears stream silently down his face, streaking the blood and dirt even more.

And with a loud sniff, he, too, dozes off, not caring whether or not he wakes up, because all he wants is this little moment between father and son to last for eternity, with the fire crackling and radiating heat and a thin blanket around them and a gnarled hand clutching a pale hand (and vowing to never let go).

He feels like a child, being coddled like this, but when Gaius coddles, it's not pitying, it's not degrading, because when Gaius cares, he _cares,_ and when you look into his withered eyes, you don't see uncertainty, you see aged determination and pure compassion.

And he cherishes it, keeps it in his heart, because he has no idea what the world has in store for him, and he _needs_ this to keep going on.

Living seems bearable, but only for the moment.


	5. I Feel Absolutely Nothing

**yay yay yay! a new chapter! not much going on, but something'll come up very soon, promise.**

**warnings: CURSING, alluding to BLOOD, salty TEARS, a whole section of SELF-HATE, and the AFTERMATH of an attempted suicide.**

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**word count: 1061 words**

**disclaimer: i do not own merlin.**

**canon setting: between season four and season five**

* * *

**Falling**

**Chapter Five**

**I Feel Absolutely Nothing, He Feels Absolutely Everything, And It All Hurts**

When he wakes up, a soft knocking is cutting through the silence. The fire's burnt itself down, and the only source of light is the window that conjures a warm glow around the room (courtesy of the sunset). He makes no move to open the door, closing his eyes and hoping that whoever it is will just walk away.

Of course, they don't.

Gwen, her hair tousled in the back and her face still recovering from tears, enters the room silently as ever. He can hear the sharp click of her heels as she makes her way over to the bench. Sensing her body right next to him, he opens his eyes and stares into the fire, just as Gaius was doing. His vision is obscured when Gwen, in all of her grace and glory, stops in front of him and meets his eyes, deep brown to icy blue.

In that moment, he decides that she'll never be able to understand, she'll never be able to completely grasp what it's like to be him, because her eyes are asking for an answer, but his eyes are unrelenting in their hardness.

She just sighs, takes his hand, and leads him to the patient's cot.

(He feels cold without Gaius right next to him. He feels like something's missing, something _terribly_ important.)

As if it's pure magic (Merlin's lips quirk upward only a fraction of a millimeter), Gwen's got a bucket of water and a cloth on the table. She dips the cloth into the water and presses it to his face.

He lets her.

She scrubs his face gently, but hard enough to get the crusty reminder of his actions off. The rag drags against his skin, its rough texture grinding against his pores like Arthur's sword against a training dummy.

The rag is tinged red once she's done.

She looks him in the eye, and he stares back just as blatantly. She looks like she wants to say something, something to fill the silence created by the absence of the scraping and the dunking of the rag, but she tears her eyes away instead, like she's afraid, and stalks out of the room, the black train of her dress reminding him of death.

He finds himself longing for it once more.

* * *

The knights are poised as Gwen walks through the door, bucket and rag in hand. She's slouching and looking more downcast than ever.

As Arthur's blue eyes search hers, he finds himself wanting to burst into that room and demand an answer.

But instead, she begins to talk, quietly and hauntingly as if she'd just killed someone.

"He didn't look like _himself."_

Every knight's eyes caught the trembling of her hands and lips.

"He – he looked cold. He looked like death itself and I – I – I just don't understand it. He wasn't talking, wasn't doing much, anyways. He looked like he'd lost everything, and I didn't know what to say and he just didn't look like he did two days ago and I can't – it's like he's being possessed or something and he's so – so – "

She gulped down her sobs as the knights waited in anticipation.

"He's so _sad."_

* * *

When Gaius woke up, he found Merlin sitting on the cot, eyes lost somewhere in the cluttered array of vials and herbs upon the table. His face was devoid of any blood, but it still stained his clothes. He walked over to Merlin and gave him a warm embrace before looking him in the eye.

"I have to check you over, now. Make sure there's no life-threatening wound or such."

Merlin just nodded his head.

Unsurprisingly, Merlin's body came off squeaky clean, not a single reminder upon his flesh. It proved that his magic had saved him, just as Gaius suspected.

Once Gaius was done and said that no damage was left, Merlin walked to his room, his eyes still wandering around in a trance.

Gaius wouldn't say a word to Guinevere or Arthur about Merlin's sobs.

* * *

This damn magic. It was always the magic. His motherfucking magic never thought to just give it a rest, did it?

It makes no sense. It makes absolutely no sense at all. Unscathed? From a shit-eating _fifty feet_ in the air? He's still fucking _unscathed?_

It's absolute _bullshit_ in his head. He feels fucking terrified of himself. Nothing, not even a little scabby scratch to go by.

He feels like a little boy again, running to his mother because of the speeches given by knights to the town, crying because they called magic horrendous, and that anybody who had even a sliver of it was an absolute _freak._

A fucking _monster,_ they said.

But now, almost twenty years later, he was more terrified of himself than he'd ever been in his entire life.

Not a single scratch upon his fucking body. Not even a fucking head scar or something.

Nothing. Absolutely _nothing._

* * *

Needless to say, recovering was always the hard part.

But how the hell do you recover from seeing your manservant – no, your _best friend_ – covered in his own fucking blood with your wife and your second father figure weeping over his supposedly dead body?

Arthur doesn't think you really can recover.

It's a terrifying prospect, _confronting _this damn issue, but it's one he needs to confront.

He doesn't think he'll be able to live with himself if he doesn't.

The problem is, the issue is a person.

And that person is Merlin.

And Merlin just fucking hurled himself off the highest tower in Camelot and it's fucking _pissing Arthur off_ on how much of a coward he's being right now, sitting and pacing in his room because _dammit,_ he needs answers. He needs answers _now._ Guinevere said something about waiting until Merlin talked to them, but everybody who's ever set foot in the castle knows that out of the many virtues Arthur has, patience is _not_ one of them. It's killing him inside, too, to see Guinevere's cheeks tinged red and her eyes bloodshot and a handkerchief tucked in the little fold where her dagger should be (should someone ever assault her).

And it all just hurts. It's overwhelming and mind-blowing and it all just crashes onto his shoulders and his heart and it hurts like _hell._


	6. Beggars Can't Be Choosers

**as those of you who reviewed for chapter five may know, i am pretty late with this chapter! yeah, school's a butt. **

**anyways, look at this place, all pretty and new! it's way different from tumblr's updates, wherein everybody gets angry. but here, it actually looks pretty nice. i like how they haven't changed much of the format, just made it look a bit prettier and up to date. **

**warnings: ANGST, some feeling of GUILT, the AFTERMATH of a suicide, a slightly OOC ARTHUR, and mentions of light SELF HARM.**

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**words: 1115 words**

**disclaimer: i do not own merlin.**

**canon setting: between season four and season five**

* * *

**Falling**

**Chapter Six**

**Beggars Can't Be Choosers, but Beggars with Knives Can Be a Threat (And it's a Shame They Haven't Got Any)**

Merlin doesn't come out of his room for days.

He sits on his bed, staring into space.

If visitors are lucky, he'll get up and move to the window. Sit there for a few hours. Stare at the courtyard's stones.

But he says nothing.

And they try to fill the silence in return.

* * *

Gwaine's the first to ask him.

"Merlin… why'd you do it?"

Punctual. To the point. Head on. Merlin expects nothing less from the knight.

He wants to say something, but jaws and vocal chords that haven't been used for a week or so don't work so well. They creak and feel too thick with mucus when he tries to speak, so he doesn't. He keeps his mouth shut, like he's supposed to.

_Like the good little manservant he's supposed to be._

Gwaine doesn't ask him again.

* * *

When you think Gwen, you think tender strength. You think of a gentle gale that's pretty and gracious enough when you're inside, but when you're outside, you feel like it's cutting straight into your bones.

That's Gwen. Strong and gentle all at once. She's a walking oxymoron. Quiet, yet loud. A peasant, yet a noble. Ladylike, yet knightly. She's everything you'd expect her to be and everything you'd expect her not to be.

So when Gwen takes his hand gently and sits close to him on the windowsill, he knows what's coming. Even though she's trying to comfort, she's trying to wheedle out information. She's innocent, yet a tad bit sly. She knows how to get what she wants.

"Merlin… I know you've been a bit… down lately…"

What an_ understatement._

"But we – Arthur and I – we're just worried. We want to know why you did it."

She may know how to get what she wants, but he's as stubborn as stubborn can get. He's headstrong, and he knows that _she_ knows when she's lost.

So he shuts his mouth and finds a pretty stone in the courtyard to stare at for an hour or two.

Gwen leaves with an irritated furrow in her brow.

* * *

It goes on for days. People, even people he'd only seen in the market a few times, came to visit him. They tried to ask him why he did what he did, but he never gives an answer.

He never gives an answer because he doesn't know what they're talking about.

He's done a lot of things, many of them good, many of them bad. He's retrieved and stolen, told the truth and spewed lies, saved and killed. He tries to make himself think that they're just asking why he jumped off of the tower, but they're so unclear. "Why did you do it?"

Why did he do _what?_

* * *

In the end, he figures that he just doesn't answer because none of them have the guts to say,_ "Why did you jump off of a tower, Merlin?"_

They avoid it like the plague, yet they pester him about it. It makes absolutely no sense.

He's just waiting for someone to just outright say it.

And he's got time.

* * *

He tries to hurt himself. A deep cut here and there, but it heals in five seconds flat.

All he's asking for is some personal reminder. He doesn't want the symbol of his deed to be their tears upon his bloodied body. He wants something other than that to remind him that he did fall off of that stone tower; that he did try to die.

But there's nothing.

* * *

There comes a time when they just stop visiting; just stop trying.

It's a lonely existence, alone in a tiny room where it's only sunny from twelve to seven, berating himself on the bed he used to dream about great destinies on.

But it's for the better.

Until Arthur decides to come.

* * *

Arthur's first visit is loud and full of tears and yelling.

None of them are Merlin's.

He barges into the room, all kingly and vicious and so royally uptight Merlin wants to laugh, but Arthur's face is a mixture of anger and confusion and desperation.

The heel of his fleshy hands dig into the joint between Merlin's shoulder and clavicle, and Arthur almost grimaces at how pronounced the bone is, but keeps up the façade for the sake of information.

"Why the fuck did you do it, Merlin?"

Merlin just stares back, on the brink between nonchalance and amusement.

Arthur bares his teeth and punches the stone wall.

"Dammit, Merlin!"

He begins to pace, heavy boots clunking loudly on the stone floor.

"I was going to wait it out, but you're so infuriating! You're a selfish bastard, you know! Can't you understand that we're trying to help? We're trying to _understand,_ but you just won't let us! It's – It's so unlike you! Why should you feel the need to – to do that – when you've got the simple life of a manservant? Is it not enough? Maybe I should just make you regent, make you see how hard it is to be _me!"_

Merlin still stares at the ground, but his head is starting to go into that place where all the hate started.

Arthur takes one look at him and roars in a rage.

"Goddammit! You don't understand, Merlin! It's hard enough, coming here. Do you know what they're going to think? _'Why is the king worrying so much for a horrid servant?'_ That's what they're going to think! I've put all my effort into caring, but you obviously haven't noticed. You're so _slow,_ Merlin. You don't know what it takes to be me! You don't know what it's like to lose a father; you've never even _had_ one! You don't know anything, Merlin, yet you have everybody moping around here like you've got some deep, dark secret, but you don't! You're _simple!_ You're a _peasant,_ and that's all you'll ever be!"

His words pierce Merlin's heart more than he thinks.

And then Gwaine's bursting into the room, Gwen and Elyan at his heels. Gwen's in tears, Elyan's in shock. How could their king ever say something so… blunt?

Gwaine grabs Arthur by his collar and shoves him hard against the wall. His eyes have that determined fire in them yet again, and his knuckles are white hot with rage.

"Don't you dare speak to him like that! Don't you _dare!"_

As Arthur realizes the extent of his words, he curls into himself, running a tired hand over his face and falling to the floor.

That's the first night Merlin steps out of his room, totally unnoticed.


	7. Stand Again, Walk Again

**oh wowowowowowow! fifty reviews! that's awesome! wowowow! thanks you guys! thanks to everybody who reviewed, who reviewed again, and reviewed for each chapter! also, thanks to everybody who's been reading and following this story so far! consider this considerably longer chapter your present.**

* * *

**ooh hoo hoo hoo hoo.**

**you guys are gonna hate me.**

**and i can't help but _laugh._**

**writing fics is so much fun wow i love messin' around with you guys.**

**warnings: ANGST, IMPLIED something in the first chapter, GUILT, and mentions of BLOOD and DEATH.**

* * *

**words: 1781 words**

**disclaimer: i do not own merlin.**

**canon setting: between season four and season five**

* * *

**Falling**

**Chapter Seven**

**Stand Again, Walk Again, Talk Again, Fall Again**

The cold wind cuts through the thin fabric of his shirt and gives him goose bumps that he can't quite feel.

He's sitting on the ledge again, legs dangling off the edge. If he moves just a few inches forward, he'll lose his balance and slip off again. If the wind was just a notch stronger and blowing at his back, he could be thrown off the wall like a leaf as if breaks off its branch. It's dangerous, sitting there, and he knows it.

But it's not like he cares.

The moon above him is waning slightly, but it's still bright enough to illuminate the night. With the help of the stars, too, he can see the road below and the dark, wide stain.

It's disgusting.

But it's all he's got.

This stain is the closest he'll ever be to having a deep scar or a wonky bone. This stain is the closest thing he'll have to any of those scars the knights have that come along with stupid tales of childhood curiosity.

It's the closest thing he'll ever get to _remembering._

Because he can't remember _much._ He can't remember falling or feeling the wind tear at his skin. He can't remember the sunrise or what the road looked like before he jumped.

All he can remember is feeling rage because nobody seemed to want him anymore. He can only remember how his eyes _burned,_ but the tears didn't come out. He can only remember how _free_ he felt, despite all of his atrocious thoughts towards his friends.

And then it's waking up to the moonlight as it mocks him in the morgue.

_You're alive, you little fucker._

_In all honesty,_ he thinks, _I'd rather not be._

But instead of moving that little distance forward off the ledge, he gets up, balances on it, and begins pacing nonchalantly like he's on solid ground. It's like he doesn't even –

Yeah. He _really_ doesn't care.

But he should, because it's _his_ life, not Arthur's, not Kilgharrah's, not destiny's to _handle_ and _toss_ and _squash_ and _revive_ and –

_Take a deep breath. Calm yourself. _

It's his life.

He'll spend it how he wants to. After all, life is the universe's greatest currency.

And destiny seems to be rich with them.

He could spend his life cleaning and following around the king while looking stupid and helpless when, in reality, he could kill everybody in the castle in a heartbeat.

Or he could settle down far away, find a wife, have some children, and die happy.

Or he could just end it now.

Just one more little step to the right, maybe at an angle so he'll severe the spinal column, damage the brain…

Maybe a knife to the throat. Or even a noose. It doesn't matter.

As long as he's dead when they find him.

* * *

"Are you an _idiot?!"_

Gwaine's voice is cracking and high with anger. He's furious, looking like the wolf that once howled at the waning moon oh so long ago. Teeth bared, hair tossed and tangled. Merlin's solitary attitude has affected everyone. _Everyone._

"How could you speak to him like that? How _could _you?!"

A threatening finger is pointed in the king's disbelieving face. Yes, how could he? How could he barge in here like it's some sort of raid?

_Because you're the king,_ a low voice echoes in his head.

No! Just because he's king, it doesn't mean that he can go around _bullying_ people, especially Merlin. Merlin's his _friend,_ for God's sake. Merlin's his broken friend who needs _help,_ not a noble stomping into his personal space and yelling at him.

"Merlin doesn't deserve this! He doesn't deserve someone he called a friend using his flaws against him! You know _far_ too well that Merlin's sensitive about his parents, especially his father!"

Little jolts of pressure hit Arthur's chest, and he knows it's Gwaine, but all he can concentrate on are his own hands, blue veins poking up at the back, tough muscles aligning the palm.

These hands have killed and broken and stabbed and drawn blood. They're dirty with guilt and grime and metaphorical blood he can't wash off. Though they may seem pristine and free of hangnails and paper cuts, they feel sticky and slimy with the deeds he's done, the lives he's taken.

And he touched Merlin with them.

He fucking grabbed him by the shoulders and demanded answers with these dirty, awful hands.

No, Merlin didn't deserve any of that.

"You're a fucking _prat!_ You can't call yourself Merlin's _friend_ if you go around treating him like a servant! He's _more_ than that! He's more than anything _you'll_ ever be; anything _I'll_ ever be! He's got a heart fiercer than the Great Dragon and you don't deserve to _know _that heart! You don't deserve the polite smiles, the caring he gives! You don't deserve _any_ of it! None of us do! None of us…"

Gwaine's fists against his chest are getting lighter and lighter. It comes to a point where Gwaine just puts one fist on his sternum and hangs his elbow limply, head bowed and jaw clenched and tears of anger running down his cheeks.

"None of us deserve to be Merlin's friend."

"Then the least you can do is apologize."

Gaius is there, a candle in one hand, the other gripping Gwaine's tunic. His eyes are sad, but determined.

"All four of you, go find him and apologize before he falls again. Please, just apologize, talk, and let him talk… Please, work it _out."_

Gwaine's hand falls from Arthur's chest. Arthur's hands drop to his sides.

Merlin's not perched on the bed anymore.

* * *

It's a wild sight to see.

A group of knights, the king, and the queen are running rampant around the city, desperately calling out one word.

_Merlin. _

Any other group of villagers would be _astounded_ to see their rulers run through the city like madmen, their protectors run off into the night without armor and swords, but those in Camelot? They're used to it. They know who they're looking for. They all know. They've seen the blood and the broken body and the miraculous recovery of the servant they all know and love.

Most of all, they _understand. _

And though the king may or may not register it, he'll find later that he'll be grateful for it.

He'll be grateful that they see him as an equal.

* * *

Leon and Percival had been down to the courtyard in thirty seconds flat. Just the sight of their friends looking desperately for Merlin had them scrambling from their lookout window (they really didn't want to interfere with Arthur and Merlin's standoff – if there even was one).

It was a bit _peculiar,_ though.

They hadn't even seen Merlin go through the courtyard. Hadn't even heard the scuff of his bare feet against the stones or seen the slightest shadow move along the edge of the watch fire, guards lazing about and drifting off into sleep. They'd seen neither hair nor hide of their friend.

Now, prancing through the streets like lunatics, they still hadn't. It was quite worrisome; their cries were more desperate as the night wore on.

But something _itched_ at the back of Leon's mind. Like when there's that one spot in your tunic that's roughed up and scratches against your skin at the most ridiculous times in the most ridiculous of places almost every second of every day.

The tower. They hadn't been to the tower.

What _idiots_ they were. Clot poled, dollop headed, idiotic, royal _prats._

And with a twist of his ankle, he was sprinting the other way, catching the fabric of Arthur and Percival's tunics as he went.

"The tower," he said, breathless with the realization. "We need to go to the tower _now!"_

* * *

He's back in the same position as that night before.

His feet are tipping slightly off the edge. The moon is well beyond its peak. With a slight tilt of the head upwards, he can see the waning moon. Oh, how bright it is, yet so small. The little stars on the dark backdrop of the night shine humbly in accordance with it, helping the moon brighten up the world.

"Merlin!"

A woman's voice echoes off the stones. It's heavy with grief and thick with tears, but it's strong.

"Merlin, please, get down – "

He turns to see Gwen reach out a hand towards him. Behind her, Arthur and the knights stand cautiously, seemingly _scared _of what he'll do.

"No."

She gasps and puts a hand to her mouth.

Then she begins to walk towards him.

"I said, _no."_

He's being stubborn, childish, difficult, but he doesn't care. He doesn't care anymore. He doesn't care. He doesn't care. He doesn't care. He doesn't care. He doesn't care. He doesn't _care,_ dammit.

"Merlin, you don't have to do this, we can _talk,_ we can _sort this out,_ Merlin – "

"No! I'm done talking. I'm done. I've _been_ done; it's just taken me some time to realize it."

"Merlin – !"

"I'm _done,_ Gwen! I'm done living this – this stupid _lie!_ I'm done! I'm tired of the lies and the hurt and the – the – the lives that've been wasted! I'm tired! I'm done!"

His eyes are bright with anger, and the crease in his brow is back. It's back to mock them, saying that they still haven't done enough for their friend.

"Merlin."

It's Arthur. It's Arthur, stepping out of the torchlight shadow to stand near Gwen. It's Arthur, and he's looking more scared than he's ever been in his entire life and Merlin almost feels sick to his stomach at the glee that shoots through his body that his actions have made a fucking difference.

"Merlin, _please,_ get down."

But the rage is back.

Nobody will say it. Nobody's going to say, _"Get off of that wall before you fall again and almost die again." _ Nobody's going to say it.

And it – it kind of _hurts._ More like stings, but whatever.

To think that they can't find it in their fucking hearts to say that they need him to be alive outright is like a crushing blow to his chest.

And then his lungs feel like they're being squeezed, the puffs of breath he's making in the air are getting more frequent and needy.

He needs to get out of here. He's going to suffocate from the complete royal dignity they carry. It's like stuffing a servant in a pack of nobles at a party. It's wrong. It's wrong. It's cloying his senses and all he can think of is _jump, jump, jump._

So he does.

* * *

**i know i don't usually put a note at the end but after you soak that bit up and process it (maybe throw a rage fit idk what you do after i drop angst bombs) maybe you guys could go to my profile? i have a poll up there on which story you'd like me to write next, all of which would be multi-chapter fics. **

**so yeah. it would be pretty cool if you could vote! hee. **


	8. Thank You (For Anything and Everything)

**hello hello. i've been super busy lately, like super duper busy. apparently we're having two interim tests next week, but the county just decided to officially announce it this week, so yay. four for you, county, four for you.**

**but yeah, i haven't been here in a while. this one's not very long, but there's a lot of feelings. i wanted to make it a bit longer, but it would've run on forever and ever. sorry about the wait! **

**oh and also, it would be pretty cool if more of you could vote for which story you'd like me to make! i haven't checked recently, but when i did check the last time, it was a mere ten votes, and i don't want to base which one to write first with so little feedback, y'know? so, if you could, it would be super cool!**

**warnings: BONES BREAKING, SUICIDE, ANGUISH, mentions of BLOOD, y'know, the USUAL.**

* * *

**words: 829 words**

**disclaimer: i do not own merlin.**

**canon setting: between season four and season five**

* * *

**Falling**

**Chapter Eight**

**Thank You (For Anything and Everything)**

As he tips over the edge, Merlin can only register one thing.

He loves the feel of the wind tearing at his skin.

He loves it. He feels free. No king to serve, no knights to amuse, no queen to befriend, no destiny to fulfill. It's a blissful euphoria he wants to last forever and ever.

But every good thing comes to an end eventually.

He opens his eyes to see Gwen, Arthur, and the knights standing at the ledge he just jumped off of. Their eyes are filled with sadness and regret and he kind of wants to laugh but he only has a few milliseconds to spare before he hits the ground, and he knows it, they know it, the whole world knows it.

And as he comes within a foot of the ground, his skyward audience can feel a shift in the world, a change in the universe. They don't understand it, they don't know why they feel like the earth's going to split in two or why the stone beneath their feet is rumbling with a sort of grand anger, they just can't comprehend what they're about to lose.

As he soars to the ground, the rumbling and disturbance grows to a climax, and they don't know if they're crazy or if losing Merlin really means a torn up world.

Just as they think the mountains beyond the lake are going to burst and the stars are going to rain down on them, he hits the cobble stone path with a sickening crack and the world goes silent.

Then, like an orchestra tainted with anger after a feeble and wonky solo, their ears are blocked with the cries of the world. They can hear the horses crying out, babies in houses screeching their throats raw, and the thunder rumble as the once star-filled sky is now dark and lumpy and cloudy, flashes of light dancing around Camelot's nighttime sky it was once so revered for.

And it rains. It pours down on them, making them feel cold and wet and simply alone as they stare at the motionless body below them, blood pouring out and mixing into the rain into a pinkish puddle against the gray stones.

_" NO!"_

They all turn to Gwaine, who is clutching the ledge with white knuckles and looking like more of an animal than ever before.

"It's not supposed to be like this! It's not – It's not supposed to work out – "

He sucks in a breath and bears his teeth.

_"HE'S NOT SUPPOSED TO DIE!"_

He falls on his knees, tears mixing in with the rain, forehead against the ledge as he yells and yells.

Then, after a while, he speaks again.

"He's not supposed to die. He's supposed to live and be happy because he _deserves_ it. He's supposed to meet a nice girl and fall in love and marry her and have the grandest wedding – _traditions be damned_ – and he's supposed to have the sweetest children who'll have his ears and his attitude and – and – "

His voice is dry and cracked and so desperate that Gwen wants to hug him but she can't move, she can only feel the rain pelting down on her face as she stares at Merlin's body and clings to his every word.

"He was supposed to die _happy._"

And with those six words, Arthur can feel his heart split in two. He can feel the tears starting to spill out of his eyes and mix with the rain as he chants to himself, _no man is worth your tears, no man is worth your tears, no man is worth your tears, dammit._

But nothing can stop the salt water from running down their faces.

* * *

After a while of standing in the rain, Arthur decides he's had enough.

* * *

He runs down the steps frantically.

They can't just very well leave him to _rot,_ can they?

It's the least they can do.

So he jumps the last four steps and runs out onto the path.

* * *

The walk from the staircase to Merlin is the longest walk he's ever taken in his entire life.

He feels like it's a procession, like this is already his funeral, like he's already saying his goodbyes that were supposed to be well written and thought out and full of memories from the tales that were supposed to happen when they got older and had children and talked about how endearing and frightening their wives were as a team. They were supposed to boast about their sons and daughters and take care of the other's like they were their own. They were supposed to do a _lot_ of things together.

Arthur was supposed to say thank you.

_Thank you for everything, from saving my life to taking a knife cut to bringing me food to helping me not be such a prat._

_But most of all, thank you for being my friend._


End file.
